


The Stilinski-Hales

by Tisaniere



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Daddy Derek, Daddy Stiles, Family Fluff, Fluff, M/M, stiles and derek are parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tisaniere/pseuds/Tisaniere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of random one-shot fluffy pictures encapsulated in an overarching universe where Derek and Stiles are together and have started a family.</p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Freddie, stand still,” Stiles hissed. Freddie opened his mouth and roared. He had been pretending to be a dinosaur the past few days, although Stiles would have happily agreed that it had been the past two years, because days felt like whole lifetimes when your son behaved exclusively like a T-Rex. It meant that Freddie didn’t articulate anything except by roars, ate the food straight off his plate with his teeth, did a lot of stomping, and only watched dinosaur-related cartoons. </p><p>It. Was. Exhausting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freddie and the Frog

Derek felt the tug of a little hand on his jeans and looked down to see a pair of serious amber eyes peering up at him. A shock of black hair rested across the milky skin on his son’s forehead, slightly crinkled with a frown.

“Daddy,” the little boy said, as though the weight of the world was resting on his little shoulders. Derek ran his fingers through his son’s soft hair.

“What’s wrong Freddie?”

“Papa’s says he has a fog in his throat. I don’t think that’s good.”

Derek blinked down at his son and those concerned bright eyes. Then he chuckled and lifted his four year old up in a quick swoop. Once Freddie was settled in his arms, his gently freckled face at eye level with his, he said, “Do you mean _frog_?”

Freddie thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Freddie, it’s called a figure of speech. Papa doesn’t actually have a frog in his throat. It’s just _like_ he has a frog in his throat.”

Freddie frowned and his little lips pushed out into a thoughtful pout. One tooth came out to pierce the lower lip: one of the few teeth left in his mouth these days. Derek had felt mugged by the tooth fair as of late.

“But…he said he had a-a-a frog in his throat. Isn’t that bad? Does it hurt him? Can you help him get-get it out?”

Derek squeezed his son to him tight. The little boy had inherited his Papa’s childhood stutter when he was too excited, angry or upset. His parents both hoped that it would eventually ease with age, just as it had with Stiles. 

“No, Freddie, it’s not real. Your Papa doesn’t _actually_ have a frog in his throat.”

Freddie looked sceptical, as though there was a strong possibility his Dad could be completely oblivious to what he meant.

“Look, let me show you.”

Derek carried Freddie through into the kitchen where Stiles was chopping vegetables for dinner. He had a glass of water at his side and as they entered Stiles drank a gulp. He’d complained of a tickly cough that morning when they had woken up - to the sound of Freddie calling them through the bedroom wall as per usual - and it must have refused to clear. When Stiles noticed the two of them he grinned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There are my boys.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, trying to hide a smile, “Our son thinks you have a frog in your throat.”

Stiles pinned his lips together but couldn’t keep in the laugh.

“Oh, Freddie, I don’t really have a frog in my throat. I just have a bit of a cough at the moment.”

“Are you sure?” Freddie asked suspiciously, looking at his Papa from the side of his eyes, little fists curled into his Dad’s grey Henley.

“I promise you Freddie. Look.”

Stiles opened up his mouth wide and Freddie leant forward to take a look.

“I don’t _see_ a frog,” Freddie concluded carefully, after a long enough look that Stiles’s jaw had started to ache.

“There’s nothing in there pup,” Derek said. He took Freddie’s chubby finger and helped him prod his Papa around his voice box. Stiles gave Derek a disbelieving raise of his eyebrow over the top of their son's head.

“See? No frog.”

“But you said there was one Papa!”

Stiles stroked one of Freddie’s soft cheeks with a finger and slid his other arm around Derek’s waist.

“Sorry Freddie, I didn’t mean to confuse you. It’s just a way of describing something. I said that I had a frog in my throat because that’s what it _sounded_ like when I coughed. But it’s not true.”

Freddie thought about this for a moment.

“Is that a lie?”

“No. Not a lie. Just a way of saying what something looks or sounds like. For example…Freddie looks so good that I could eat him up.”

Stiles jumped forward and buried his face in his little boy’s chest, mouthing against his shirt and growling whilst Freddie shrieked and giggled, thumping his little fists onto his Papa’s hair.

“Stop, stop, stop, Papa don’t eat me!” he squealed, eyes flashing and his two tiny canines sliding out.

“See, I’m not _actually_ eating you,” Stiles said when he finally relented, “But it’s _like_ I am.”

He kissed Freddie on the cheek. Derek raised his other arm and touched at the side of Freddie’s mouth.

“Show me those fangs Freddie.”

Freddie opened up his mouth and proudly showed them off until they slid back in.

“Very impressive,” Stiles said with a grin. Then to Derek, “You don’t get two sets of werewolf teeth do you?”

“No, no. Once you get your adult teeth then that’s your werewolf teeth for life.”

“Thank god. I can’t afford the tooth fairy rates these days.”

“So Papa _doesn’t_ have a frog in his throat,” Freddie reiterated. He didn’t like conversations that didn’t involve him. It was something that Derek and Stiles were trying to work on. If they didn’t, they were destined never to have an adult conversation between the two of them whilst Freddie was awake.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Not even a little little one?” Freddie asked, squeezing his whole body into a tiny ball and showing just how small with a pinch of his finger and thumb.

“Not even _that_ small.”

Derek lowered Freddie to the floor and their little boy pattered away, at least partially satisfied that his Papa didn’t have a frog lodged in his throat.

“That was funny,” Stiles chuckled, sneaking a kiss on Derek’s lips, “I didn’t realise he would take it so literally.”

“He’s a toddler, Stiles, how else is he supposed to take things?” Derek replied, but there was a hefty dose of amusement in his voice. He cupped Stiles’s face in his hands and kissed him on the nose, “I thought I told you to take some cough medicine.”

Stiles scrunched his nose and pulled a face. He looked exactly like their son when they had made him eat broccoli, “I hate that cough medicine you buy. Tastes like paint stripper.”

“If you keep coughing like that you’ll hurt your throat.”

Stiles proved his point by clearing his throat and wincing.

“See.”

“But I _hate_ that stuff.”

“I can’t believe that at your age I am having to _convince_ you to take some medicine.”

“Well you should try to convince me a little better. Ever heard that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?”

“Sugar, hey?”

When Freddie walks in on them making out a few minutes later they pull apart guiltily. These days they had been enjoying Freddie’s age and his ability to spend a bit more time without constant, parental-angst fuelled supervision. So sue them.

“Hi Daddies,” he said, looking them up and down in that shrewd way that could have as easily come from Derek as it could have Stiles.

“Hello Freddie. What are you getting up to?”

“Playin’,” he said with a shrug of his little shoulders, “What were you doing?”

“Er…”

“Were you making sure that Papa doesn’t have a frog in his throat?”

Stiles felt himself go red from his collarbone upwards. Even Derek had a little red tinge to his ears, but he was laughing.

“Yes, Freddie. We were just double checking.”

“Ok. Can we play White Fang now?”

 

 

 


	2. Snot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their little boy is going through his snotty, drooly phase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful comments and kudos on the other chapter guys :)  
> These are just a series of one-shots and I am firing them out in between writing my other fics. A good exercise for my brain!
> 
> WARNING: If kiddie snot or drool makes you gip then I wouldn't read!
> 
> Plus I am aware that Mr Harris bit the dust in S3B but let's just *ahem* pretend that didn't happen in this particular universe.

If Stiles ever wrote a handbook on to how to deal with werewolves - and he was going to, one day, once he worked out a way to stop the werewolves he knew from finding out and ripping said book to shreds - then he would have this to say about werewolf children: supernatural healing abilities though they may have, they still produced the same amount of snot, puke and slobber as any other child. Possibly more.

 _His_ werewolf child certainly did anyway. Freddie was a snot machine and the kid had to be at least 60% drool these days. Stiles was sympathetic to his son's plight, of course he was. The poor thing seemed to be growing all of his adult teeth at once and another set of impressive werewolf fangs to boot. But that didn’t make Stiles feel much better when he was standing in the fruit and veg section of the grocery store trying to grab Freddie long enough to wipe his nose, hands and chin and make sure that the seemingly possessed trolley didn’t veer away and knock down a pensioner.

“Freddie, stand _still_ ,” Stiles hissed. Freddie opened his mouth and roared. He had been pretending to be a dinosaur the past few days, although Stiles would have happily agreed that it had been the past two years, because days felt like whole lifetimes when your son behaved exclusively like a T-Rex. It meant that Freddie didn’t articulate anything except by roars, ate the food straight off his plate with his teeth, did a lot of stomping, and only watched dinosaur-related cartoons. It. Was. Exhausting.

Stiles finally managed to wipe the last of the drool off Freddie’s chin and gave up, letting his little dinosaur spin off towards the vegetables section roaring like a champ. Stiles wrinkled his nose at the ball of sopping tissues in his hand and, with nowhere else to put them, shoved them into his pocket. He was sure there was a good dose of snot and saliva all over his jeans anyway. Freddie didn’t believe in tissues and found it perfectly acceptable to run up to his Dads and use their legs as tissues. Stiles hadn’t had it quite as bad as Derek, who the other week had been brushing his teeth in nothing but his boxers and got a full face of early morning Freddie-juice all over his bare legs.

Stiles nudged the cart in Freddie’s direction with his hip, his hands too busy trying to find the list he’d brought. He had one eye on Freddie - roaring at a stack of potatoes - and his mind was in a million different places trying to think of where they needed to go in the store. But first, he needed his list.

The list that was just not appearing in the places he thought he should be. It wasn’t in his jeans pockets, even under the mounds of used tissues. It wasn’t in his jacket pockets either. He had a vague memory of him last seeing it on the kitchen table. After a few more moments of frantic searching he guessed that it must have remained there.

“Are you kidding me?” he groaned, doing one last final pat down.

Nothing.

“Freddie, come here a second!” he called down the aisle, where Freddie had momentarily disappeared.

“Freddie!”

Freddie roared in response around the corner and eventually emerged, little hands tucked in front of him to replicate claws, dancing on the toes of his children’s converse high tops.

“Hi there T-Rex. Do you remember what I did with our list?”

Freddie shook his head. Oh god, more snot. Stiles wrestled his son between his legs and trapped him there, growling and hissing in protest, whilst he pulled out his last clean tissue and wiped his nose. With his other hand Stiles speed-dialled Derek and wedged the phone against his ear.

“Hey,” Derek answered on the second ring, “You left your list.”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I just realised and I can’t remember a thing on it.”

Freddie reared his head back and roared up at his Papa.

“Is he still being a dinosaur?” Derek asked, with a sigh in his voice.

“Oh god, yes. He’s also still producing metric tonnes of snot and drool. I thought this wouldn’t happen with a werewolf kid, why is he this…gooey?”

“The drool is because of his fangs, they’ll bother him just like his regular teeth did. His body reacts to pain and new things growing just like a human child’s.”

“And the snot?” Stiles asked, his voice a half growl as Freddie tried to squirm out from beneath the tissue.

“He’s a kid. He gets covered with other kids’ germs at preschool and this is his healing abilities fighting it.”

“Is it bad to find the snot that my child produces completely frustrating?”

“It isn’t.”

“Good, ‘cos I’m currently up to my elbows in it and I hate it.”

“Want me to come and bring you the list, are you going to turn around, or do you want me to just read it over the phone?”

“Just give me a few things to start off with and I’ll let our dinosaur run a bit, then call you back.”

“Ok. We need some fruit for the fruit bowl, maybe apples and oranges, then broccoli, carrots and sweet potatoes. And some milk and Freddie’s cereal.”

“Got it. Call you back in a minute.”

Once Stiles was sure that Freddie’s face was clean he let him go and the boy shot off up the aisle.

“Freddie, swallow!” Stiles called after him. Instead he just saw his son wipe the sleeve of his little hoody across his mouth.

Gross. That’d be something else that was going in the wash tonight. Ever since the intense drooling had started when the growing fangs began Stiles had been trying to get Freddie to pay attention to the rivers of saliva he was producing out of his mouth. The snot was one thing. No kid ever paid attention to that and Stiles doubted that there was a child anywhere in the world who actually _wanted_ to wipe their nose. But the drool: that needed some input.

Scott had laughed when he’d told him about his attempts to get Freddie to understand he needed to swallow more and try not to slobber everywhere.

“Believe me, it won’t work. We tried that with the twins and they just _don’t_ care.”

Stiles did remember the visits Scott and his kids had made during that time, all the playdates and the pack nights where Scott and Allison had chanted at their toddlers to notice when they were drooling everywhere. It seemed it was one of those phases that werewolf kids went through. That didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Stiles pushed after Freddie and started to stockpile all of the things they needed. As he dumped the sack of potatoes into the cart he looked wistfully at the little seat at the front designed for children of just Freddie’s age. Every time he and Derek brought Freddie to the grocery store they proposed the little seat to him. Every time their son looked at them like they’d ask him to stick a fork in his eye.

“Freddie, you have to stay where I can see you.”

Freddie made little purry, growling noises from where he was crouched behind the door of the milk cabinet.

“Freddie,” Stiles said in a whisper, pointing to his teeth, “Keep the fangs in buddy, remember?”

As if drool and mucus weren’t enough to deal with, there was the fact that he and Derek had had a werewolf child with no concept of the danger he’d be in if he flashed his werewolf side in public.

This, however, was one area where Freddie was exceptionally good. In fact Stiles could count the number of near-misses in public on one hand and still have fingers left over.

Freddie pretended to claw at his Dad’s jeans, gave him a confirming grin, then ran off. Stiles just tried not to look at all the snot and the drool, seeing as he didn’t have any tissues to wipe it up anyway. He called Derek a few more times for more list reminders. They had got all the way to the alcohol aisle right at the end, where Stiles was buying some red wine - which wouldn’t do anything but have a nice placebo effect on Freddie’s Daddy, but would do wonders for the stress levels of his Papa - when he realised that he didn’t have his wallet.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Stiles cried, throwing his arms up in the air in disgust at himself, the universe, at everything. He rang Derek back and braced his other arm against the trolley, his grip on the handlebar tight so that he didn’t pick up the wine and start drinking it right there in the store.

“You forgot something else?”

“My wallet.”

“Ah.”

“Can you bring it? I’m sorry but I’m too far into this thing to just leave it and we’ve been here for hours and I have half a packet of soggy tissues in my pocket and oh god I forgot to pick up more packs of tissues, wait one second.”

He hung up the phone and hoped (actually, he knew) that Derek would have understood all of those garbled words.

But, of course, he lost Freddie before they even made it to the aisle with the tissues.

“Freddie? Freddie! Freddie, I can’t see you, where are you?’

Stiles gulped on the panic and stalked up and down the aisles, his shopping cart abandoned. Where was he, where was he, shit shit shit shit shit.

“Freddie! Freddie!”

These were the moments that he wished he were a werewolf. If this were Derek he’d have found Freddie by scent and his hearing alone. He’d hear his heartbeat and know if he was safe or not as he sensed him out. But Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. He was a puny human and he was racing between the aisles desperately searching, trying not to panic, because this happened all the time didn’t it? Kids got lost in grocery stores all the time, it happened to every kid, it was fine. He remembered it happening to him when he was a child. Then again he was the sort of little shit that would wander off without telling anyone. Oh god, why did Freddie have to inherit this sort of crap from him?

Then he saw him. His little son was roaring at a couple by the freezer cabinet. They both looked down at the snotty four year old like he was a rabid dog. Stiles jogged up and when Freddie saw him he at least had the decency to look like a sorry dinosaur.

“Frederik Stilinski-Hale,” Stiles growled, kneeling down to his son’s level, “What did I tell you about running off? You shouldn’t do that. Not ever, but _especially_ not with me Freddie. I’m not your Daddy, it’s not so easy for me to find you. Do you hear me?”

Freddie swiped the back of his hand over his runny nose and nodded, admonished.

The couple who Freddie had cornered took a relieved step back. Stiles could hear their disgust at the snotty boy at their feet. He stood with a sigh, ready to say thank you for…something, he wasn’t sure what really, because they hadn’t exactly been helpful, when he realised with a jolt like a punch to the face that he knew one of them.

“Mr _Harris_?”

Mr Harris blinked back at him from behind his little black-rimmed glasses, his face as reptilian as ever. There was a girl with dyed blonde hair on his arm, no more than twenty years old, who looked ready to scream if Freddie came a step closer to her.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Mr Harris said, as though his name were a particularly virulent strain of thrush.

“Mr Harris,” Stiles repeated, stupidly.

Mr Harris looked over at his girlfriend, and Stiles didn’t miss the nervousness in his gaze, as though deciding whether Stiles was worth explaining something to. Maybe he knew that Stiles was a detective. Maybe he cared what an old student thought of him. Then the look was gone and he turned that laser-point stare back at him and then down to Freddie.

“Stilinski. It appears you…procreated. That both amazes and worries me.”

“Still as charming as ever then, Mr Harris,” Stiles said on a sigh. Freddie stood alongside him, assessing the man his Papa was talking to with narrowed eyes.

“Stilinski, I think your child needs a tissue,” Mr Harris said, his focus on Freddie’s face.

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard it nearly knocked him over, “It’s not poisonous, Mr Harris, he’s only a kid.”

But it was a fair point, and Stiles didn’t have any tissues. Stiles sighed, pulled his hoody sleeve down over his arm and wiped his son’s nose with that. Because he was a parent and that was the sort of thing that you did. Mr Harris looked just about ready to hurl.

Suddenly there was a familiar presence at Stiles’s shoulder, a smell of wood and night air wrapped in a very warm and broad body.

“Got your wallet,” Derek said, pressing it into Stiles’s hands.

“Thanks.”

Mr Harris looked at Derek like he was the easter bunny, “It’s…it’s _you_.”

Oh. Right. It looked like Mr Harris remembered Derek from the ‘Wanted’ posters back in the days when things first got really freaky in Beacon Hills. And the night in the school when Derek had been searching for clues about ‘the Alpha’. That seemed a lifetime ago now, but it appeared that that particular era of their lives was imprinted in Mr Harris’s brain. His girlfriend now looked completely freaked out at the expression on his face and was squeezing his arm.

Throughout all of this Freddie had decided he was completely safe with both of his Daddies present and was free to go back to roaring at everything and everyone. As the four adults stared at one another in silence Freddie screeched and squealed and ‘rawwwwed’ at Mr Harris.

“What is your child doing?” Harris eventually sputtered out, clearly undecided about who he was more afraid of: Derek or their son.

Derek looked down at his boy and lifted the four year old into his arms. In perfectly mirrored motions Derek and Freddie turned to look at one another, then back to Mr Harris.

“He’s a dinosaur,” Derek said.

Duh.

Stiles wasn’t even bothering to suppress his mile-wide grin and his rumble of a giggle. Derek pulled a clean tissue out of his pocket - their saviour - and affixed it to Freddie’s face.

“Come on Snot-asaurus.”

Then turned on his heel and left the little group without so much as a backwards glance.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something to his old school tormentor, changed his mind, and turned to leave as well. He caught up with Derek at their cart.

“Got everything we need?”

“Now we have my wallet, we do.”

“Let’s go then.”

Stiles landed a kiss on Derek’s cheek and Freddie did the same.

“I don’t think I’ve been that glad to see you for a while.”

“What about that time you were hanging from your wrists in a basement with an angry wendigo about to disembowel you and all the other members of the Beacon High lacrosse team?”

Stiles raised his eyes to the ceiling, thinking, “Hm. Maybe a little less than that.”

Freddie looked between his Daddies with a frown, as though he wanted to question that story from top to bottom.

But then he didn’t. He was a dinosaur, after all. So he just roared, kicking his legs against his Daddy’s side, clawing at his leather jacket and wiping as much snot and drool as he could against the fabric.


End file.
